


Hunger So Honed

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Genderswap, Lap Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing quite satisfies the same urge that this does: John sitting astride her, impaled on a thick bit of silicone and squirming prettily because Sherlock knows precisely what she likes—what they both like, in fact—and will not let her hide from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger So Honed

Sherlock has long believed that human sexuality is ridiculous, and becoming a participant in regular sexual activity has thus far not lessened her conviction in the slightest. If anything, it’s confirmed it.

There is, for instance, no logical reason that a silicone phallus attached to her groin by a leather harness should be as satisfying as it is. After all, she receives no sexual stimulation from the device, and more than that, she doesn’t give a whit about penises, unless one has been involved somehow in a particularly interesting murder. And even if she does have some sort of deep-seated desire to possess a penis, her favourite toy—a thick, sharply curved purple dildo that resembles a penis in only the sense that it is vaguely cylindrical with a fat bulb at one end—shouldn’t satisfy it.

And it _is_ satisfying, exceedingly so. Some days Sherlock _craves_ an opportunity to wear it, for moments like these, when John is knelt in front of her, doing her best to take the toy into her throat despite how it irritates her gag reflex and makes her lovely eyes water, while Sherlock settles back in the armchair, pets her hair, and tells her what a good girl she is.

Lamentably but nevertheless predictably, John pulls swiftly away, her face scrunched in exaggerated embarrassment. The purple toy is left glistening with saliva, and Sherlock briefly imagines shoving it between John’s lips, holding her still if she tries to pull away. But John is very much not interested in that sort of thing—and Sherlock has no desire to engage in any sort of sexual activity that John is actively opposed to.

“Seriously?” John says. Her voice is hoarse, a glorious side effect of having spent nearly thirty minutes sucking a silicone prick. “‘Good girl’?”

Sherlock scoffs. She may be baffled by some of her sexual interests, but at least she isn’t embarrassed by them. “Let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy it just as much as I do. Now come here and sit on Daddy’s cock.”

“Jesus,” John mutters, and Sherlock grins at how the tops of her ears pinken as she stands. “How—um. How should I—”

“Just like this. Facing me.” Sherlock reaches for her and coaxes John into her lap, one bent knee on either side of Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock holds the dildo still as John lowers herself onto it. There’s a moment of resistance, as usual; the bulbous tip seems uncomfortably large, no matter how wet John is—and John is always impossibly wet. Sherlock’s own body often refuses to cooperate on that front, but John is a proverbial fountain; every time Sherlock thinks she is as wet as she can be, John gets even wetter.

The tip finally pops in, and John sinks down on the shaft with a soft, half-sighed “ah!” She clasps Sherlock’s shoulders as her head falls forward, eyes closing and forehead pressing against Sherlock’s. Sherlock kisses her bottom lip and nuzzles at her cheek.

“Slow,” she says. “Give yourself a moment to adjust. It’s been a while.”

“It’s been three days,” says John, eyes still shut.

“Shush.”

It’s been ages. Sherlock has been dying to have her like this since yesterday morning, but John stupidly keeps insisting on taking shifts at the surgery and then being exhausted when she returns to the flat hours later. With John bleary-eyed and half-asleep beneath her, Sherlock has had to make do with her fingers alone. Which is enjoyable, of course it is, because then she can feel how John’s cunt pulses like a beating heart when she reaches orgasm, but it doesn’t satisfy the same urge that this does: John sitting astride her, impaled on a thick bit of silicone and squirming prettily because Sherlock knows precisely what she likes—what they _both_ like, in fact—and will not let her hide from it.

“Does it feel good?” she asks.

“You know it does, you prat.” John straightens her spine, which has the unintentional effect of calling Sherlock’s attention to her breasts: large, with the right being slightly larger, and soft and now mere inches from Sherlock’s face. “You don’t have to be so bloody smug about it.”

Dull, Sherlock thinks. What is the use of being brilliant if she can’t be smug about it? She skims her lips teasingly over each of John’s nipples and relishes John’s sharp intake of breath, her hands clenching on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Of course I do. Why shouldn’t Daddy be smug about making his little girl feel good?”

John’s hips stutter, and although Sherlock can neither feel nor see it, she knows that John clenches around the toy inside her. A breathy moan falls from her lips, and her spine curls again as she returns her forehead to Sherlock’s. Her wrinkled nose and pink ears indicate that she is embarrassed by her own reaction—utterly pointless, of course. When will she learn?

“Prick,” John says.

“I have one at the moment, yes.” Sherlock grins and tilts her hips up for emphasis, drawing a more vocal moan from John’s throat. Excellent. Sherlock adores this dildo—designed for G-spot stimulation and yet just a hair too short for John’s body, which means it is perfect. Constant pressure would be unbearable, given John’s sensitivity, but with this, a single thrust gives her a moment of pleasure that recedes before it is overtaken by discomfort. “Any suggestions for what I should do with it?”

John fists the hair at Sherlock’s nape—gently, not enough to sting, but a clear hint that she is perfectly capable of doing so—and snarls. “Stop teasing, Sherlock, and just fuck me.”

“Mmm, tempting, but no. No, I think _you_ are going to fuck _yourself_ on Daddy’s cock.” She settles her hands low on John’s hips, gripping just below her iliac crest. “How does that sound, John?”

John swallows. Sherlock greedily watches her throat bob, then presses a wet kiss to the skin there.

“All right,” John answers, and though there’s a note of defiance in her voice, she does precisely as Sherlock has asked: using her thighs to raise and lower herself on the toy’s shaft.

“Good,” Sherlock tells her, because John does well with positive feedback, and John does it again, then again.

It’s more of a slow, gentle rocking motion than a proper riding or thrusting, but John’s skin begins to perspire and flush with exertion all the same. Sherlock curls an arm around her, stroking along her sweat-slick spine as John clings to her, panting into Sherlock’s fringe. Every downward grind of her cunt on the dildo, every drag of its fat tip right over her sweet spot, brings a muffled “ah!” and the bite of John’s fingernails in Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock lays her head between John’s breasts and listens to her heart pumping blood throughout her body. Her own arousal is a pleasant burn in her groin, a lovely supplement to the sharp, unrelenting pleasure she gets from the sight and sound of John fucking herself on Sherlock’s—thankfully fake (what a distraction it would be if it weren’t)—cock.

“Pretty girl,” Sherlock purrs. “You love bouncing on Daddy’s cock.”

“Oh,” John cries, grinding constantly now, her hips moving in little pulses as she fucks herself. Sherlock loves the tendril of helpless desperation in her voice. She predicts the harness will be sodden with John’s wetness when this is over. “Oh, please.”

“Please what, John?” Sherlock asks. She kisses John’s breastbone sweetly. “Tell Daddy what you need.”

John whimpers and squirms—though not, Sherlock notices, in embarrassment. _Finally_.

“Mm, that’s a good girl,” Sherlock says. She strokes John’s back in encouragement, and tips her head back to press a string of wet kisses along John’s throat. “Touch yourself.”

John leans away, her head dropping back, as she slides her left hand between them and touches herself, sighing, “Daddy.”

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed while she memorises this moment, files it away in her mind palace with her collection of other similar moments. When that’s done, she takes over the rocking, tipping the toy into John’s G-spot with tiny, minute movements so that John can concentrate on fondling her swollen and doubtlessly throbbing clit. John whines quietly, her thighs beginning to tense and quiver. Every movement of her hand is followed by a soft slick sound.

“That’s it,” says Sherlock. “Come on Daddy’s cock.”

“Oh,” John moans, “Daddy,” and says nothing else for several minutes aside from wordless, whorish cries, shaking as she comes.

When the trembling and noises have subsided, Sherlock reaches between John’s thighs and finds her exactly as she anticipated: sopping wet. Both the harness and the base of the dildo are drenched. Sherlock traces where John’s cunt is stretched around the thick silicone, and John sighs, swivelling her hips in a way that Sherlock knows very, very well.

“More?” she asks.

John answers Sherlock’s smirk with one of her own. “Yes, please. But, um. Maybe on my hands and knees this time? And… well, the floor here looks grand, actually.”

She gestures towards the length of carpet just in front of the armchair, and Sherlock thinks delightedly of the burn John will get on her forearms and knees, and how with John on her hands and knees Sherlock will be able to watch her lovely pink cunt suck greedily at the dildo and drool wetness all over the harness.

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock says, nuzzling John’s jaw. “Good girl.”


End file.
